Irish Wonders | Page 2

fringed with banners and glittered with helmets and shields. In olden times it was the citadel of the town, and although Athenry was fortified by a strong wall, protecting it alike from predatory assault and organized attack, the citadel, occupying the highest ground within the city, was itself surrounded by stronger walls, a fort within a fort, making assurance of security doubly sure. Only by treachery, surprise, or regular and long-continued siege could the castle have been taken.
The central portion was a large, square structure; except in size, not differing greatly from the isolated castles found in all parts of Ireland, and always in pairs, as if, when one Irish chieftain built a castle, his rival at once erected another a mile or so away, for the purpose of holding him in check. This central fort was connected by double walls, the remains of covered passages, with smaller fortresses, little castles built into the wall surrounding the citadel; and over these connecting walls, over the little castles, and over the piles of loose stones where once the strong outer walls had stood, the ivy grew in luxuriant profusion, throwing its dark green curtain on the unsightly masses, rounding the sharp edge of the masonry, hiding the rough corners as though ashamed of their roughness, and climbing the battlements of the central castle to spread nature's mantle of charity over the remains of a barbarous age, and forever conceal from human view the stony reminders of battle and blood.
The success of the ivy was not complete. Here and there the corner of a battlement stood out in sharp relief, as though it had pushed back the struggling plant, and, by main force, had risen above the leaves, while on one side a round tower lifted itself as if to show that a stone tower could stand for six hundred years without permitting itself to become ivy-grown; that there could be individuality in towers as among men. The great arched gateway too was not entirely subjugated, though the climbing tendrils and velvety leaves dressed the pillars and encroached on the arch. The keystone bore a rudely carved, crowned head, and ivy vines, coming up underneath the arch, to take the old king by surprise, climbed the bearded chin, crossed the lips, and were playing before the nose as if to give it a sportive tweak, while the stern brow frowned in anger at the plant's presumption.
But only a few surly crags of the citadel refused to go gracefully into the retirement furnished by the ivy, and the loving plant softened every outline, filled up every crevice, bridged the gaps in the walls, toned down the rudeness of projecting stones, and did everything that an ivy-plant could do to make the rugged old castle as presentable as were the high rounded mounds without the city, cast up by the besiegers when the enemy last encamped against it.
[Illustration: A Modern Irish Village]
The old castle had fallen on evil days, for around the walls of the citadel clustered the miserable huts of the modern Irish village. The imposing castle gate faced a lane, muddy and foul with the refuse thrown from the houses. The ivy-mantled towers looked down upon earth and stone huts, with thatched roofs, low chimneys, and doors seeming as if the builder designed them for windows and changed his mind without altering their size, but simply continued them to the ground and made them answer the purpose. A population, notable chiefly for its numerousness and lack of cleanliness, presented itself at every door, but little merriment was heard in the alleys of Athenry.
"Sure it's mighty little they have to laugh at," said the car-man. "Indade, the times has changed fur the counthry, Sorr. Wanst Ireland was as full o' payple as a Dublin sthrate, an' they was all as happy as a grazin' colt, an' as paceful as a basket av puppies, barrin' a bit o' fun at a marryin' or a wake, but thim times is all gone. Wid the landlords, an' the guver'mint, an' the sojers, an' the polis, lettin' in the rich an' turnin' out the poor, Irishmin is shtarvin' to death. See that bit av a cabin there, Sorr? Sure there's foorteen o' thim in it, an' two pigs, an' tin fowls; they all shlape togather on a pile av wet shtraw in the corner, an' sorra a wan o' thim knows where the bit in the mornin' is to come from. Phat do they ate? They're not in the laste purtickler. Spakin' ginerally, whatever they can get. They've pitaties an' milk, an' sometimes pitaties an' no milk, an' av a Sunday a bit o' mate that's a herrin', an' not a boot to the fut o' thim, an' they paddlin' in the wather on the flure. Sure